


no skein, no gain

by whitchbhitch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crafts, M/M, Minor suicidal ideation, Recovery, Recovery Through Crafts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25123741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchbhitch/pseuds/whitchbhitch
Summary: Bucky looks up at one of the kitschy signs on the wall of the store."I CRAFT so I don't KILL PEOPLE!" the sign exclaims, in bright purple, sparkly cursive.Huh.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	no skein, no gain

**Author's Note:**

> Whaddup whaddup whaddup my name is greenurr I haven't interacted with the MCU fandom since like 2016 and I'm here to write a fic about Bucky Barnes tenderly engaging in a hobby I don't even DO! 
> 
> I listed it in the tags but I wanted to do another tw: in this fic Bucky is recovering from some pretty severe trauma, and struggles, not with thoughts of killing himself, but with thoughts about no longer wanting to be alive. I almost described it as "you know, the normal kind of suicidal ideation?" but then I remembered that not everyone is *dabs* severely mentally ill. I don't want to scare anyone away, but if you think that would be triggering for you, please take care of yourself! There's truly NO need to trigger yourself over a fan fiction about a cyborg assassin learning to crochet. That would just be silly.

When he gets home, Bucky spends a lot of time riding the train. He spent so much time underground before. Bunkers. Huge, sprawling, secret underground laboratories. He likes to have a few feet of dirt above his head. Back when he was with Hydra, he used to think about it a lot. What would happen if the roof caved in. However many feet of dirt, falling down on top of him. Buried where no one could find him.

He'd found the thought comforting. Of all the ways the Winter Soldier might die, being crushed to death by thousands of pounds of concrete and dirt was relatively painless. And hopefully it'd take everyone in whatever lab he was in down to hell with him.

The big difference between the Metro and the Hydra facilities were the people. Civilians. Depending on the time of day, dozens of them, all crammed into a tube underground running 25 miles per hour. He had been so alone, before. There was something addicting about being elbow to elbow with strangers, all of them with separate destinations, but heading in the same direction. Bucky can barely go an hour without having a harrowing flashback, but he can do this. He can sit, with ground above his head, and watch the darkness beyond the window.

He takes the train to his shrink, who nods at him a lot and asks him how he's feeling. He's not feeling much. She encourages him to get more person-to-person interaction. She asks him about Steve.

Bucky doesn't know what to say about Steve, so he doesn't say a lot. Once everything calmed down, Bucky and Steve came home. They went back to Brooklyn. They got an apartment, two bed, two bath, with a nice kitchen and a big TV. Steve is supportive. Steve is relentlessly supportive. Steve is so supportive, it skeeves Bucky out sometimes. _Whatever you need, Buck. Whatever you want. Go ahead, make your own choices_.

Everybody's always telling him to make his own choices, but if it was down to him, he'd go underground and never come back up. But nobody would like that choice, and everyone would make it their business, Steve especially. He'd have to go back in to some sort of custody, and be placed on suicide watch, and he'd have to start going to therapy every day again, instead of twice a week. Everybody would look at him, and ask him questions, and be concerned. It's not that Bucky wants to kill himself. It's not even that he wants to die. He just wants to go underground and never return. It's that simple. But he can't say that, so he instead says:

"You said, last week, that not making a choice is actually a choice. That you choose to not make a choice."

His shrink inclines her head. "I did say that, yes."

"So that's my choice. To not make a choice."

His therapist sighs through her nose. "You can't stay in stasis forever, James," she says. "Eventually you're going to have to rejoin the world."

"I was in stasis for one hundred years, Doc. I'd hate to break that streak now."

His shrink rolls her eyes at him, and he smiles, just a little. He likes this one. The last one couldn't tell when he was joking. This one gives him shit.

"Well, if you're feeling sassy, I guess we can pivot to talking about your nightmares. You know, if you'd rather."

He resettles himself in his chair. "Cruel and unusual punishment."

On the way out, she lays a hand on his shoulder. "You've gotta find something else to do, other than riding the train, James. It's good you're getting out of the house, but you've got to start _living_. Get a hobby. Hell, pick up birdwatching, I don't give a damn. So long as you're _doing_ something."

Bucky nods, and exits the building. It's the middle of the day, so when he gets on the train, there's plenty of places to sit. He takes a seat towards the end of the row, pops in an earbud that isn't connected to any phone. He's far too paranoid to actually play music, but he's found that people nowadays are freaked out by a guy on the train with absolutely nothing to do. 

There's a young woman sitting across from him, her curly head bent over something as she frowns. She's doing... something? With yarn? It isn't knitting, because there's no needles. He knows that knitting has needles. She has what looks like, maybe, a hook? Of some sort? She's obviously frustrated as she quietly curses at the mystery project. The ride back to his apartment is pretty long, and she seems in it for the long haul too, so he sits across from her for thirty minutes as she growls, curses, and undoes what seems like dozens of stitches. Then, two stops before he has to get off, she gasps in victory, grabs some scissors from out of her back, and snips once. She takes what she had been working on and cradles it in her two hands. It's one perfect little sock, just the right size for a newborn baby. 

He wonders if she already has the other one made, or if she's going to go home tonight to curse and fret over a second teeny-tiny sock. He wonders who's pregnant. Is it a sister? A friend? Her? How soft is the yarn? Will the baby like it?

He's still thinking about the sock as he steps off the train. What was she doing with the hook? He had wanted to ask her, but he couldn't work up the nerve. He's still thinking about it as he walks the few blocks back to the apartment. He's thinking about it so hard, he nearly misses it, only catches it out of the corner of his eye: a yarn store. He stops in front of it. He's walked down this street probably hundreds of times. How has he never noticed this store before? Before he can think too hard about it, he pushes the door and walks in.

There's a jingle from the bell above the door as he enters, and a middle aged woman behind the counter raises her eyes to him. She looks like a mom. Not like his mom, he can barely remember her face. But every mom, as though all of the maternal energy in the world had coalesced and created this singular All-Mother, wearing a fisherman's sweater and her hair up in a half-ponytail.

"Hi," she says, smiling. "Let me know if you need any help, okay?"

"You bet," he says, and immediately ducks behind a yarn display. Fuck. Fuck. He has absolutely no idea what to do in here. He has zero plan of attack, but he can't just walk right back out. That would be too weird. Alright. He'll look around for two minutes and then bid her a polite goodbye. That'll be fine.

He casts his eyes around the store. It's a riot of color, from all the skeins of yarn piled in bins to the decorations on the walls. He locates a rack of the hooks the woman on the train was using. Crochet hooks. Okay, that answers that question. He's heard of crochet before, he thinks.

Bucky looks up at one of the kitschy signs on the wall of the store.

"I CRAFT so I don't KILL PEOPLE!" the sign exclaims, in bright purple, sparkly cursive.

Huh. 

He grabs a pack of crochet hooks blindly, spends maybe fifteen seconds looking at yarn before choosing one nearly at random, an orange that, frankly, hurts his eyes just to look at. He brings it up to the woman at the check out.

"You know, more young men your age are starting to craft," she remarks, as she rings up the hooks. "If you ever need any advice, you can just come on back here. I'm happy to answer questions for free."

Bucky grunts in agreement and flees. 


End file.
